I had on a light overcoat.  Hobart, bound for the tropics, had no such protection.  It was cold and miserable, a chill wind stirring from the north was unusually cutting.  Hobart raised his collar and dug his hands into his pockets.

“Brr,” he muttered; “brr, some coffee or some wine.  Something.”

The sidewalks were wet and slippery, the mists settling under the lights had the effect of drizzle.  I touched Hobart’s arm and we started across the street.

“Brr is right,” I answered, “and some wine.  Notice the shadows, like ghosts.”

We were half across the street before he answered; then he stopped.

“Ghosts!  Did you say ghosts, Harry?” I noted a strange inflection in his voice.  He stood still and peered into the fog bank.  His stop was sudden and suggestive.  Just then a passing taxicab almost caught us and we were compelled to dodge quickly.  Hobart ducked out of the way and I side-stepped in another direction.  We came up on the sidewalk.  Again he peered into the shadow.

“Confound that cab,” he was saying, “now we have gone and missed him.”

He took off his hat and then put it back on his head.  His favourite trick when bewildered.  I looked up and down the street.

“Didn’t you see him?  Harry!  Didn’t you see him?  It was Rhamda Avec!”

I had seen no one; that is to notice; I did not know the Rhamda.  Neither did he.

“The Rhamda?  You don’t know him.”

Hobart was puzzled.

“No,” he said; “I do not; but it was he, just as sure as I am a fat man.”

I whistled.  I recalled the tale that was now a legend.  The man had an affinity for the fog mist.  To come out of “Faust” and to run into the Rhamda!  What was the connection?  For a moment we both stood still and waited.

“I wonder—­” said Hobart.  “I was just thinking about that fellow tonight.  Strange!  Well, let’s get something hot—­some coffee.”

But it had given us something for discussion.  Certainly it was unusual.  During the past few days I had been thinking of Dr. Holcomb; and for the last few hours the tale had clung with reiterating persistence.  Perhaps it was the weirdness and the tremulous intoxication of the music.  I was one of the vast majority who disbelieved it.  Was it possible that it was, after all, other than the film of fancy?  There are times when we are receptive; at that moment I could have believed it.

We entered the cafe and chose a table slightly to the rear.  It was a contrast to the cold outside; the lights so bright, the glasses clinking, laughter and music.  A few young people were dancing.  I sat down; in a moment the lightness and jollity had stirred my blood.  Hobart took a chair opposite.  The place was full of beauty.  In the back of my mind blurred the image of Rhamda.  I had never seen him; but I had read the description.  I wondered absently at the persistence.

I have said that I do not believe in fate.  I repeat it.  Man should control his own destiny.  A great man does.  Perhaps that is it.  I am not great.  Certainly it was circumstance.